Horse Show Disaster: The Black Sheep at the Horse Show

Only once have I gone to a horse show alone. By that I mean without my mom, sister, and especially trainer. However, in 2004 I did just that. I was a seasoned horsewoman and though my show career had been on hiatus for several years due to a career transition and cross-country move, I certainly knew how to walk, trot, and canter a horse. A gal at the barn in Pasadena where I was boarding at the time, told me a local riding club was having a schooling show. Another boarder, one I didn’t know very well, had a trailer and offered to take us to the show. I viewed this as a chance to challenge myself and have a “learning experience.” Little did I know this “learning experience” would quickly turn into a horse show disaster.

The day before the show I bathed DC and said a prayer that he wouldn’t lie down in a pile of his own brownish green apples and that he wouldn’t sleep so soundly that tiny cream colored shavings would cling on to his fuzz of a forelock and mane and tail. I rubbed his forehead and scratched his chin a bit and gave him a kiss goodnight, and took home his saddle pad to wash.

The next morning I arrived at the barn pretty early. The row of horses I had to pass, box stalls on the left and exterior paddock stalls on the right to get to DC’s stall all had their heads down, intent on eating their breakfast.

When I called his name, DC courteously took a few steps toward me, ears perked, still chewing and then returned to the more interesting pile of green stems on the ground. I let him continue to eat as I squatted down to wrap his legs with puffy white pads that looked like an ultra absorbent diapers and followed that up with black standing wraps. I had already made sure to take only my essential brushes, a hoof pick and fly spray in my yellow plastic brush box. I put the saddle, girth, bridle, and brush box in my car. I was good to go. Except I had forgotten my saddle pad. Which I realized once I got DC settled at the show grounds.

One of DC’s shortcomings was that he could not be tied. If he was tied, he would pull back and break his halter. Better to have a broken halter than a broken horse, however. I would buy the nylon halters with the leather crown piece so that the halter would snap in an emergency.

Because this was essentially a schooling show, I didn’t have to braid him. I had rented a stall since I could not tie him to the trailer. I was the only one who had rented a stall. Everyone else had someone to take turns holding their horse. I walked past several horses tied to trailers, happily munching from a haynet. I didn’t say it to the snacking beasts but thought, “Don’t you know all it would take is one quick tug and you could be free?”

I threw some hay into the box stall which was a few hundred feet away from the arena. DC whinnied and whinnied and whinnied. Very shrill, nervous whinnies. He was so loud. It was embarrassing. I didn’t know what to do.

I found someone who loaned me a saddle pad and then decided I should turn DC loose in the round pen, also about 300 feet from the show ring. Maybe he could get rid of some of his nervous energy by frolicking for a few minutes. He did just that, huffing and puffing and shaking his head. To my horror, the horse show announcer announced, “The round pen is not open during the show. You need to remove your horse from the round pen.” Now I was not only the lady with the horse that wouldn’t shut up, but I was the rule breaker. Which was odd since I’m very much a rule follower in real life. It’s just unwritten rules I’m no good at. Had there been a sign that said, “No turnout,” everything would have been good. All the shows I had been to before had places to lunge, turn out, etc.

Somewhere in the midst of this chaos, Gabriel showed up. Not the angel, but a friend from church. He had always wanted to learn how to ride horses and so he asked me to join him a few weeks earlier when embarked on a mission to purchase boots and a hard hat so that he could take riding lessons from his sister-in-law who ran a small stable. I had never seen Gabriel ride, but knew he was a beginner. I needed to head over to the show secretary’s table to register for my classes and get my number, so I left DC in his charge. Even though he was a beginner around horses, I figured he was a guy and therefore strong. And even in his limited riding experience, he probably knew how to hold a horse. It couldn’t be that tricky to hold a lead rope. But I hadn’t accounted for just how tricky it can be to hold the lead of an unsettled horse at a show grounds.

When I started filling in the papers DC started his fretful whinnying again. One of the ladies at the registration table made a snide remark about “that bay horse.” As I filled in the registration form I said, “I’m trying to enter ‘that bay horse’ of mine into the hunter class,” hoping to make her feel embarrassed. But it was my turn again as someone shouted, “Loose horse!” I turned and surmised DC had spooked and pulled away from Gabriel as he was trotting proudly much like the Black Stallion in the scene where the boy was trying to tame him.  DC sure was beautiful when he was loose. Thankfully, DC’s wild freedom was short lived as a nearby Good Samaritan successfully grabbed the dangling lead rope.

I thanked the helpful stranger and told Gabriel not to worry about it, although since he is male, he probably wasn’t worried. I was the one who at this point was a bundle of nerves: my horse had been broadcasting his unease by whinnying across the whole show grounds, I had been publicly reprimanded over the loudspeaker for lunging him in the round pen, and now he had been the “loose horse!” What was going to happen when I mounted and actually rode him in the show ring? Maybe it was stupid to think I could go to a horse show by myself. Where was Joanne (my former trainer–2,000 miles away) when I needed her? And my mom?

To make matters worse, I had noticed earlier there was a spectator camped out at the far end of the show ring with a large blue beach umbrella. In most every arena I had ridden in, DC would select one specific spot of the arena that was his personal nemesis. If he were feeling very spunky he would let out a full-blown spook, snorting and shying away from the terrifying corner. If he were feeling a little more subdued he might simply drift in toward the middle of the arena or stay near the rail, but turn his face slightly opposite of the proper bend, suspiciously eyeing the scary region of the rail. I would prepare for such shenanigans by maintaining a solid, yet gentle contact on the outside rein and keeping my inside leg very close to the girth, with pressure on his side, in an attempt to keep him straight. And I would try to focus my attention to a point beyond the scary spot. And breathe. The irony in riding is there is so much going on behind the scenes, thoughts, subtle muscle movements, ring strategy in an attempt to make for a beautiful ride that portrays the horse as though he is moving effortlessly and everything is his own idea.

Gabriel had some other event to go to and so he said goodbye just as I was about to start riding. When I mounted DC against my better judgment, it was as though I had come to rest on a wad of nerves, not my lovely equine companion of ten years. My heart was fluttering even though my brain was telling me to be calm and communicate confidence to my horse. He needed me to be the adult in this situation.

DC held his head high, like a sentinel scanning the king’s domain. I walked him in the most forward walk he was capable of to the schooling area and began warming up for impending disaster. Earlier in our show career, back when I was sane and had a trainer I lunged DC for about 40 minutes at the trot to get him to relax. And by the end of the session he was mellow enough to behave civilly. I did not have that luxury that day. So I attempted to recreate what had been a successful strategy Joanne had taught me a decade earlier. And so began our marathon trotting exercise. The tricky part was that I knew if I trotted him too much, I would be useless as my fitness level was no match for his.

Right as I was about to depart the schooling area to sheepishly ride “that bay horse” into the show ring for our first class, a familiar, cheery, “Hi Susan!” broke into my forced internal pep talk.

I could have cried. Dana and Patrick, two dear friends who didn’t even know each other, had showed up at the same time to support me. Dana had her camera in hand.

“I’m about ready to go in. This should be interesting.” I pointed out where they could stand along the rail to have a prime view of the forthcoming entertainment.

My horse, who had been a bundle of raw energy up until that point, decided to use his power for good once inside the show ring. The announcer intoned, “You are now being judged at a walk.” I took a deep breath and tried to shove my heels down further and stretch my spine up taller. I put on a smile. Not a senior picture or wedding day smile, but the corners of my mouth turned up a bit, reflecting the sheer delight and pleasure it was to be on such a grand steed. In that moment it was an act.

There were only about five other riders in the arena and I did my best to space myself out so that DC and I could dazzle the judge. We neared the umbrella lady on our first lap and DC didn’t bat an eyelash. In fact, he perked his ears forward and kept looking straight ahead, very receptive to my subtle squeezes on the reins.

When the judge was not looking, I talked to DC. I don’t think he needed any reassurances, but I did. I knew that if I talked, I would have to breathe. And if I had to breathe, my body would hopefully relax.

We began to trot at the announcer’s bidding.. I could feel the correct diagonal, but still glanced down, with my eyes only–keeping me head level and looking ahead. I was fine, but didn’t want to take anything for granted. DC’s springiness popped me out of the saddle ever-so-slightly and I went forward with the motion and then gently for a millisecond until I sat down to repeat the cycle of posting UP, down, UP, down.

The judge called for a walk and I knew what was next. So did DC, but he didn’t let on. After a few strides where I regrouped, shoving my heels down against the stirrup irons, shortening my reins an inch and caught a glimpse of my two dedicated fans standing at the edge of the arena. “Riders, please canter your horses. Canter.” I barely grazed DC’s right side with the heel of my boot, giving a little squeeze to the left rein, a squeeze just like the end of prayer when you’re holding someone’s hand in church. My show horse pushed off his hind end and burst forward into a left lead canter. “Good boy!” I whispered. He flickered his ears back for a second, listening to me, and then focused his ears forward again to show off for the judge. I sat tall and proud. None of the earlier snafus mattered–the forgotten saddle pad, the announcer scolding me about using the round pen, DC’s blaring whinnies across the showgrounds. We were there to perform for the judge and for the crowd. But mostly for each other.

DC’s elegant stride swallowed the ground and I maneuvered around other slower horse and rider combinations. It wasn’t a race, but there was something gratifying about forging ahead of the others. My carousel horse kept the same rhythmical hoof beats going until the judge called for a walk. I saw down deeper in the saddle and pressed all of my fingers firmly together on the reins to make them signal the transition. DC slowed down and resumed a forward, showy walk.

The judge called for a reverse and I had a slight worry that approaching the umbrella from the new side might be cause for reaction. Not so. We repeated the same energetic trot followed by the right lead canter. I preferred cantering to the left since my nose break accident had occurred at the right lead canter. Alas, the entire ride should have been videoed because it was textbook perfect. In spite of that, I had low expectations. After all, I had been the show black sheep.

DC stood like a gentleman as we awaited the results. He turned a bit to the left and a bit to the right to check out his competition close up. He chewed the silver snaffle bit just a little bit and then looked at the judge with his ears pointed forward. I swear he was posing for her.

There were eight riders in the class so I figured we’d at least get a ribbon. The judge revealed the placings beginning with 6th place. Our number was not called. He went through all the other placings then called, “In first place, number 282, Susan Friedland riding Adonis.” I leaned forward to accept our blue ribbon. DC and I trotted to the gate where my friends were waiting.

“Congratulations, Susan!” Dana cheered in her mild Louisiana sing song. Patrick smiled, congratulated me, chuckled and congratulated DC. He was less interested in the words of praise and pats than in sniffing the new people to see if they had any carrots. I gave Dana the ribbon and returned to the arena for the next class: equitation.

My confidence had risen 16 hands high!

The next class was almost the same as the first. Although I was more relaxed. And when it was over we had won another blue. By the end of the day I had won the championship for my division. Even though it was “just” a local show, I was as delighted as if I had won at Madison Square Garden. DC was quirky and sometimes unruly, but I had him mostly figured out at that point. We were a true team. My heart was bursting with love and my spirit with joy.

The best part of this horse show was that about two weeks later, a friend from my barn said, “Susan, I got an email from the organizer of the schooling show. They put out a monthly newsletter and she was wondering if she could get a picture of you and DC to include in the next issue.”

I smugly emailed the picture to the contact at the show, thinking, “The Black Sheep became the Superstar!”

Your Turn: What is the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to you around horses?